


in those arms I found my love

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 01:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12495792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: Jeremy injures himself and James shows affection the only way he knows how: with a curry and a film.





	in those arms I found my love

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally published on the 24th September 2015 (by me under a different username) and I'm reuploading it now as a process of moving my works from one account to the other. it's been edited for punctuation errors but nothing else.
> 
> Based on Series 12, Episode One (the £5000 Lorry Challenge) and some comments Jeremy made at the CHM Live Q&A in Sydney. Someone in the audience asked what their worst injury was, and Jeremy spoke of this episode, where he injured his neck/shoulder. He said that the producers wanted him to go through the brick wall at 50 km/h (30 mp/h), but he thought that would look rubbish, so gunned it and went through the wall at around 80/90 km/h (56 mp/h), hence his injury.

Of all the stupid things Jeremy Clarkson has done in his life—and, thinking back, there have been a lot—this may be one of the stupidest. He is hurtling towards a brick wall, in a lorry, doing 56 miles an hour.

Before they’d started the challenge, the producers had warned him not, under any circumstances, to go over 30 miles an hour, despite what the challenge envelope had said. Richard and James could get away with going slightly faster, because their obstacles were less sturdy; but his was the very definition of the word. They’d lined him up with a bloody brick wall, making him wonder what he’d done to piss Andy off lately.

Of course, once he’d started to roll, he’d hit 30 very quickly indeed and decided that going through a wall at 30 miles an hour would make for incredibly dull television. So he gunned it.

And this is where he is now: facing down a brick wall in his stupid stealth lorry, entirely sure of his impending doom. Still, his foot does not lift from the accelerator, grimly ensuring that this will be entertaining telly, even if he does die in the process. Just before the impact, right before the lorry goes into the wall, a sudden, unwelcome thought flits through his mind, apropos of absolutely nothing: _I will die never having kissed James._

What the hell? Where had—

The stupid sprung cab of his lorry bounces him around so badly that one of the internal cameras is thrown from its mount; the other manages to survive, barely. He’s slammed back in his seat, then forward again, his neck ricocheting around. Instantly he feels the pain—it’s like a white hot blade in his neck. Vaguely he realises he’s stopping the lorry, slamming on the brakes, but he can’t focus on anything except the pain.

As the lorry stops, he breathes for a second and self-assesses. Apart from his neck—the pain from which is now starting to radiate down into his shoulder—the rest of him is fine, and he hasn’t been impaled by any flying bricks. Gingerly taking off his helmet and collar, he moves his neck around to feel the extent of his injuries. It’s bad, but he won’t die, so he opens the door and swings down for the waiting cameras, ignoring the pain best he can as Richard makes jokes, slipping instantly back into his TV persona.

James is staring at him the way he does sometimes, blue eyes sharp and narrowed, not missing a thing. He sees how Jeremy is hurting, can tell it in the way he moves, gingerly and carefully, but he plays along regardless.

Jeremy can hardly form coherent sentences, but he argues with them anyway. “I’ll tell you—I’m not‚I promise you—” he begins, trying to convey whatever his stupid, addled brain is thinking, but it’s not coming out and as he nods the pain stabs him in the neck again and he hisses, drawing himself up. “Ow. This actually really hurts.”

James frowns, worry crossing his face instantly, but Richard just grins. Turning his back on them, he heads off to the waiting ambulance, wanting to get injected with something, _anything_ to make the pain go away.

***

James finds him sitting on a stretcher, the paramedics fussing over his neck and shoulder. He watches for a distance and waits patiently, until they’re done, eyes surveying Jeremy all the while. It makes him feel hot and self-conscious and he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like being eyed like this. When _did_ James start looking at him like that, anyway? The past few weeks, or months, even?

The paramedics turn away for a second and James approaches, looking down at Jeremy, eyes concerned. “You alright?”

“I’m _fine_ , James. It feels like my bloody head is going to fall off, but as far as they can tell, there’s no lasting damage.”

James just stands there, eyes scanning Jeremy’s face to tell if he’s being truthful or just putting up a front. Jeremy hates it when James disarms him—sharp as Hammond may be, he simply takes Jeremy at face value—and it makes him feel itchy, like he’s just pulled on a woollen jumper. He has to look away.

Apparently, though, whatever insight James gleaned from his face proves that he’s faking it. He follows up with an admonishment. “Don’t say you’re fine when you’re not, Jeremy. It doesn’t help.”

“Why do you care, May?” Jeremy shoots back, standing up abruptly. “It’s just a muscle injury. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

James appears to be warring with himself for a few moments, opening his mouth and shutting it again, but eventually he concedes. “Right. I’ll see you soon, then.” He replies, turning away and marching back across the runway.

Jeremy watches him go, a feeling not unlike longing settling in his stomach.

***

The paramedics had advised him that his neck would be fine with a few days’ rest—which, they stressed, meant no driving around corners sideways with tyres screaming. It means he has a reprieve from filming from the rest of the week, for which he is gleeful about. He gets to lie around on the sofa, watch crap movies and generally feel sorry for himself, which is one of his favourite pastimes.

He’s halfway through _2 Fast 2 Furious_ when his phone rings, bleating from somewhere down near his knee. He gropes for it and holds it up to his ear without checking who it is, knowing it’ll be someone from work.

“Clarkson,” James says by way of greeting.

Jeremy’s eyebrows raise. They haven’t spoken since their spat on the tarmac the day before yesterday, and while Hammond had called to check on him (and moan about how unfair it was that Jeremy had got a day off work and he hadn’t, to which Jeremy pointed out that he hadn’t been _injured_ ), there had been absolute silence on May’s end.

“James,” Jeremy replies, guardedly.

James coughs softly. “How are you? Hammond told me you were at home.”

Jeremy pauses the film and slings a hand over his eyes. Even like this, the sound of James’ voice is comforting to him, something that he doesn’t like. James has always driven him to irritation, with his endless anal-retentive tendencies and penchant for rambling on for hours on end about torque and drive shafts and braking power and all sorts of dull things. They’re best friends, of course, all three of them, but James pushes Jeremy’s buttons in a passive way. This new development in their relationship has shifted something, and they’re circling around each other awkwardly, keeping their distance.

Perhaps it’s because the way James looks at him these days, never missing anything he does. Perhaps it’s because of the way Jeremy suddenly notices how James’ eyes crease at the corners when he smiles, the way his lips curl up in a soft smile that sometimes feels like it’s only for him to see.

“I’m ok. I’m stuck watching terrible American films, featuring terrible cars. It’s United Nations sanctioned torture, I’m sure,” he fires back.

James laughs. “I can stop round after work and we can watch something un-American, if you’d like.”

Jeremy hesitates, but only for a moment. Even if their relationship is a bit strange at the moment, James is still one of his best mates. “Sure. Bring a curry.”

When they hang up, he turns the film back on, but finds he can’t pay attention anymore.

_***_

He’s been building this up in his head, pacing anxiously around the living room, the stupid film completely forgotten. He checks the fridge, to see if he’s got some beer (he does, but it’s not the poncy kind James likes). He checks his bedroom, to see if the bed is in a presentable state, although he doesn’t really know why he’s doing it. He ends up hovering in the kitchen, drinking a cold cup of tea to try and calm himself.

The doorbell rings, and when he opens it, it’s just James—normal, safe, floppy-haired James, who is smiling and holding plastic bags, wearing one of his absurdly ugly shirts. “Alright, Jeremy?”

Jeremy can’t help himself, he smiles back, joy lighting him up from the inside, despite the twinging pain from his neck. “I hope you brought a good curry. The one we had last time was shit.” He turns and heads into the kitchen, leaving the door open for James to follow. “Want a beer?”

James follows him, wrinkling up his nose. “Drink your swill? No, thanks. I brought my own.”

“James, everything with you has to be so _refined_. Why don’t you ever live a little?” Jeremy replies, rolling his eyes.

A funny expression crosses James’ face, but only for a moment. “And drinking terrible beer is the way to do that? I can think of better ways.”

Jeremy’s breath hitches in his throat, unsure of the way to take that statement, but James continues like he hasn’t said anything off-putting. He pours the curry into two bowls and hands one to Jeremy before heading to the living room, humming quietly to himself, acting perfectly at home.

Something blooms in Jeremy’s chest, just behind his breastbone—a sudden wave of affection for James. He follows him, watching as James busies himself with putting a DVD in the player. He’s mesmerised by everything: the way he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear; the way his fingers move so deftly, even while doing something so mundane; the way he wets his lips with his tongue—

Pushing those thoughts out of his head (that is a crisis he can have later), he settles at the other end of the sofa and digs into his curry. “Good choice, James,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

James nods. “They got good reviews on the internet.”

The idea of that, of James researching curry places in preparation for coming over, does something funny to his chest, makes it all tight, and he has to look away to the TV and the movie James has chosen. Another wave of affection hits him, stronger this time, and he’s left momentarily speechless.

“Really, James?” he asks quietly. “You know this is my favourite movie.”

James shrugs, avoiding Jeremy’s eyes. “You’re hurt, so I thought this would make you feel a bit better.”

Jeremy looks back at the screen, where the opening scenes of _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ are playing, and back at James. “But you don’t like it.”

James takes another mouthful of curry and shrugs again, not saying anything. Jeremy’s heart races, surprised by this sudden gesture of kindness from James. Usually they end up watching documentaries, or so-bad-they’re-good movies, not each other’s favourites. As Jeremy pieces it all together in his head—the research for the curry, the film—he wonders what’s really going on. He’s been injured before, and James has never been this tender.

Shaking his head, he tunes into the film, trying to avoid looking at James out of the corner of his eye.

***

Slowly, slowly he wakes, opening his eyes blearily, taking a moment to remember where he is.

He’s in his house, on the sofa. The TV is on, lighting up the room dimly. He sees the bowls in front of him, right as he remembers the night and realises where he is—lying with his head on James’ shoulder.

He sits back, expecting James to reprimand him, but James is just smiling, his eyes soft. James _hates_ being touched, has for as long as Jeremy has known him—a constant point of contention between them, because Jeremy himself is a physical person—but now he’s just smiling, in a way that Jeremy hasn’t seen before.

“Sorry, May.” He winces, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

James looks away, still smiling. “It’s alright.”

“I missed the end of the film!” he grumbles, leaning back on the sofa. “And my neck hurts,” he adds with a slight pout.

James looks back at that, his hair falling around his face like a curtain. “Sorry. I didn’t want to move you and wake you up.”

 _Why?_ What has changed? A year ago, James wouldn’t have hesitated to shove him off if he’d dared to drift anywhere _near_ his shoulder. He also would have made fun of Jeremy falling asleep in the middle of his favourite movie. He’d probably ring Hammond to let him know. So what exactly, in the past year, has changed that this is all allowed now?

Before he can figure it out, figure out what this means in the context of James’ and his new relationship, James leans forward and kisses him, just briefly—his lips as light as a breath of air.

Jeremy freezes. Stupidly, his first emotion is annoyance—annoyance that James had the courage to make the first move, and he didn’t. Annoyance fades into panic, and James, who is watching him carefully, must see it, because he shifts away slightly. Now is most certainly _not_ the time to have re-evaluate his sexuality, not at forty-eight years old and not with one of his best friends, but his body hasn’t apparently got the message that his brain is screaming at it, because he finds himself reaching for James and pulling him close.

His lips find James’ and he nearly faints. Kissing James—hell, kissing any man, really—should feel wrong, alien. But it doesn’t, it feels _right_ , like there’s some part of him that has lain dormant and is only awakening now. He gasps and shudders into James’ mouth, reaches up to wind his hands in James’ hair—how is it so _soft?_ —and tug, feels James respond and press closer.

“Christ, Clarkson, I never knew you were so eager,” James breathes as Jeremy pulls him onto his lap.

“Was this your intention all along? To woo me with curry and _Butch Cassidy_?” Jeremy asks, brushing hair back from James’ face. “You shameless harlot.”

James blushes at that, and Jeremy’s heart lifts. “Not exactly. I wanted to make you feel better.”

Jeremy kisses him again, lingering and slow, one hand splaying on James’ thigh, edging upwards. He feels heat pool in his belly, feels himself getting hard. Another wave of ludicrousness strikes him; this is _James_ on his lap, the same James that he’s known forever, the same James who bangs on about torque and drive shafts, the same James who abhors physical contact. The moment passes, however, and he loses himself in the feel of James’ mouth.

James’ hand undoes his button and fly haltingly, as if waiting for Jeremy to change his mind and push him away, but he doesn’t, and when James grips his cock, he feels his world shift slightly, everything off-kilter. He rears back as James begins stroking, back arching, neck twinging painfully as he moans, eyes locked on James’, who is looking at him hungrily.

“James—I’m going to—”

“...Come? Yes, Clarkson, that’s generally the idea,” James interrupts mildly, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“No, you idiot, I’m going to fuck my neck up even more if you keep going like that,” Jeremy spits out, teeth clenched.

James leans down and kisses him gently, and Jeremy can feel him smiling still, and Jeremy doesn’t want him to smile, he wants James to moan for him. So he grabs James around the waist and pulls him flush with his body, hands roaming underneath his hideous shirt, pressing dimples in his back, suddenly aware of how hard James is.

“Jeremy,” James whispers. “I have a solution to your neck problem.”

And before Jeremy can move, before he can react, James slides off Jeremy’s lap, onto his knees, eyes dark with lust, and bends his head to take Jeremy’s cock into his mouth.

Instantly, the way James is moving his tongue and hand together tells Jeremy that James has done this before, and vaguely he realises he should be surprised, but isn’t. He’s too busy trying not to flail around on the sofa and injure himself further.

Logically, he fact that it’s James on his knees in front of Jeremy should be a turnoff, but as he sees James run his tongue across the head of his cock, he feels himself growing even harder, and can’t help but to thrust forward, hips lifting automatically. As he watches James, suddenly everything becomes crystal-clear. All this dancing around, all the arguments, all the awkwardness, has been leading up to this, and oh, God, it was worth it.

His hand comes up into James’ hair and, tentatively, he pushes James’ head down, watches as James takes all of him into his mouth, feels James gag a little bit, and he starts to see stars. He hears himself moaning unabashedly as James starts sucking him faster, head bobbing back and forth rapidly, Jeremy’s hand guiding him.

“Fuck, James—going to—”

Dimly he realises he should be ashamed of how long he’s going to last, but he resigns himself to his orgasm; he is getting older, and perhaps he should be grateful he could get it up at all. James drives that all from his head, though, as he twists his wrist, causing Jeremy to buck his hips, hand twisting in James’ hair, eyes screwed shut. God, he hasn't felt this turned on in years. It feels like he's vibrating from the inside out, all his emotions writhing around in his chest.

He comes, muscles tightening low in his belly, the sensations pouring into one after another like a waterfall, back arching and fingers clenching, watching all the while as James keeps eye contact with him. It’s the single most intimate experience of his life, and he feels like it goes on forever.

It doesn't, though, and James gets up, knees creaking, and collapses onto the sofa, watching Jeremy wordlessly as he does up his pants, hand coming down to curl around Jeremy’s in a strange, but not unwelcome, gesture of intimacy.

The feeling of inevitability surrounds him again, and he has the oddest feeling that this is what him and James have been heading towards all this time, like two cars on a collision course. What happened tonight was completely unavoidable—and, if Jeremy is being honest, he doesn’t know if he _wanted_ to avoid it. Being with James, odd as it was at first, quickly felt so right that it didn’t even feel like the first time.

He turns to James, who is watching him silently, waiting for Jeremy to sort through his feelings. He knows that James feels the same way, just like he knows the sun rises in the morning and sets at night.

“Maybe I'll do stupid things more often, if it’s going to lead to this,” he says, still clutching onto James' hand.

James scoffs, but he's smiling. "Jeremy, you do _not_ need to be doing more stupid things. If anything, being a little less stupid wouldn't hurt."

Jeremy gets up, reluctantly pulling away, and takes the bowls into the kitchen. "That's impossible. Your influence only goes so far," he calls back over his shoulder.

"We'll see," James says calmly, and Jeremy has to grin. Yes, he certainly would like to see where this goes.


End file.
